


Misplaced Affections

by stuffilikeiwrite



Series: The Unexpected Cannot Be Expected [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Also Holmes Is Smart But Dumb But Smart, Also Mycroft Is A Good Big Bro, And Of Course Drug Use, And Watson Is Oblivious, Angst, As Is Holmes, Bi Holmes, Canon Compliant, Dear Watson Will Never Know, F/M, Gen, Holmes Will Never Tell, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Internal That Is But Very Slight, It Needs to Be Mentioned Once At Least, It is Sherlock Holmes after all, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Movie: A Game of Shadows, Onesided Johnlock, POV Sherlock Holmes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sad, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Unrequited Love, at first, emotionally hurt, poor sherly, sad but sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24936097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuffilikeiwrite/pseuds/stuffilikeiwrite
Summary: But Watson was the exception that changed the rule.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Unexpected Cannot Be Expected [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808986
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47





	Misplaced Affections

Holmes had, strangely enough, not exactly minded the idea much. 

It had been present, nagging at the back of his conscience - sometimes quite persistently. Most of the time, however, it had been bypassed and easily overlooked in favour of much more pressing, much more important worldly matters. He had his hands full of either busy cases, or interesting experiments. He knew where to place his focus, where to allow his mind to run a mile a minute. Pesky emotions had been surpassed to the _'waste of time and space'_ category; a subfolder stored so far away that he doubted he would have been purposely able to locate it had he tried.

What _was_ factual, was that he had allowed one Dr. John Hamish Watson to overrule that one consistency. 

It was also factual that, despite his sometimes ubiquitous eccentricity, there were some things about Sherlock Holmes that remained surprisingly humane. Despite his unrivaled intellect. Of course, he possessed _some_ semblance of a moral compass - else he would have rendered the idea of persecuting and putting an end to criminal activity harming society superfluous. He just happened to think one step farther ahead; to detract affectious fluctuations from the equation. Sometimes - regrettably - to his detriment, as Watson had eventually proved to him. Not that Holmes would ever admit to that particular misgiving.

As for misplaced affections. 

Holmes would never have imagined his intellect could ever fail him so spectacularly. He considered himself an educated man; a man of science and reason. He considered himself profoundly perceptive. He knew the textbook examples of romantic leniency. He knew of the superficial symptoms that came with the ailment, could list the suspect examples at the top of his head. 

Indeed, he was well aware of the expected heart palpitations; aware of the flustered, dazed state of mind courtesy of the hormonal endorphin release that the idea of falling in love inadvertently triggered. He grasped the gist of physical arousal; the rush of blood to the groin area, the widening of the pupils, the over-sensitized state of every nerve ending. Holmes had closely regarded Watson's flustered expression when first admitting to his courtship of one Ms. Mary Morstan. He had noted the inability to keep eye contact; the ever so slight stutter, the excitement to the doctor's pitching tone. The fumbling of his callused hands, the awkward stiffness of his posture. 

As with everything else involving human anatomy and basic primal instinct; it was _expected_. A natural, functional reaction. Humans; _people_ , were animals after all. Expected to procreate, expected to mate. Only, Holmes had nothing substantial to compare it to. No personal experience to weigh it against.

He had never considered the absence of an overt need for physical or emotional intimacy anything he lacked; never looked upon it as a shortcoming. The less attachments, the more freedom. Above all, there would be none to mourn him if - _when_ \- he'd inevitably meet his grizzly demise. Were it not for the better if there was no one around to miss him, the day he was found with his skull cracked open against the cobblestones in some grimy alley way? If, as his brain matter washed away with the dirty streams of rain water, no one need blame themselves for the horror? 

Except, once Holmes had invited Watson into his life; there _was_. 

Certainly, there had always been Mycroft. But Holmes was fairly assured that his brother looked upon life through the same lense as he himself; death would come for everyone. Death would not stall, death would not falter. It would claim its bargain, and when it did - that was the end of it. When it came, it would be grieved adequately before left alone along the wayside. Just another part of existence. Every person would meet the reaper, in time. And neither Holmes brother had ever cared much for dreading their own, or anybody else's, time of dying.

But Watson was the exception that changed the rule.

Not only would the younger Holmes find himself actively fretting over the moment he met his own maker, knowing he'd leave a mournful friend behind. He feared to an even _greater_ extent, the possibility that Watson would die _before_ him. 

Perhaps, the good doctor might end up a casualty in the war upon misconduct that Holmes himself had introduced his newfound - _only_ \- comrade to. Watson would sometimes jokingly say he was dragged kicking and screaming into the ordeal; although Holmes would rather disagree. Watson had always been a willing participant. 

Still, Holmes had been calculating the risks, had spent many a late night high penning charts and mathematic schematics to study and validate his point. To make sure Watson would remain safe and sound, whatever the cost. Few scenarios came out unfavorable. But it was enough to know that there was even the slightest risk. It kept Holmes on his toes; kept him just a tad more alert, his ears perked whenever Watson stood by his side. Knowing he had not only his own life - a life he frankly cared little for at the end of the day - but _Watson’s as well_ in his hands.

The first time something seemed amiss; Holmes had shrugged it off. Watson's firm arm around his waist, rough fingers grazing his stubbled jaw as they gripped his chin to keep his head above water. The choice had laid between staying atop the faltering wooden bridge and be gunned down; or jumping into the freezing streams of late Autumn Thames. 

They’d reached the shore, clothes sopping wet. Holmes coughing, gasping for air as he sunk down into the cold sand. The taste of murky, black river water on his tongue; clogging up his airways. And then, Watson's warm hands on his drenched skin. Just a quick check of his vitals. Holmes attributed the visceral pang echoing through the empty spaces within his rib cage to the sudden adrenaline rush of flight, to the cramps of lingering icy water still burning his lungs. Even as Watson's concerned green eyes met his. 

The second time; Holmes had considered the curious peculiarity of this new sensation. 

Perhaps, it had been the dizziness of blood loss talking. Perhaps, it had been the last remnants of the cocaine he’d injected into his veins. When he'd spotted the barrel aimed at Watson's face point blank range; gleaming gun metal silver in the full moonlight - his feet moved before his genius intellect could think up any alternate scenarios to derail the danger in time.

The bang of a gunshot ringing loud enough to momentarily deafen, as his right shoulder collided unceremoniously with Watson's lean body. Both of them tumbling to the harsh ground; another shot following in its wake. Only eerie silence followed; Holmes' heartbeat pounding in his ears.

When his distraught psyche managed to register their assailant sinking head first into the mud; the previously numbed surges of red hot pain revealed themselves. Radiating from his left collarbone area, down into his upper torso. Holmes shut his eyes, something warm and wet he _knew_ must be blood quickly soaking through his clothing garments. Watson's voice faraway, a ghostly touch beyond the paralyzing pain. A warm flutter of something at the pit of Holmes' belly; letting him know he was in safe hands as his consciousness faded, that Watson was unharmed - thanks to him.

"Are you _jealous_ of Mary?" Watson had asked, his tone high pitched with aghast disbelief after Holmes had decidedly professed his displeasure at the doctor’s mention of his engagement plans.

Holmes had scoffed indignantly at the preposterous notion. 

Watson was a suitable match of a man, it was only proper he snared himself a decent lady. A fine catch, Holmes assumed would be a fitting conclusion to draw. He had simply wanted to be certain Ms. Morstan was who she proclaimed; even he with his unequaled equilibrium could not have foreseen the deceased ex-fiancée in her past. He knew Watson was still upset, and it _confounded_ him more than anything. 

Watson must know he wished only the best for his good friend. Still, some foreign part of Holmes recalled a distant past in which his favourite kitten had neglected his companionship in favour of his older brother's. An unfair comparison perhaps; yet some part of him connected the dots as a gnawing, sinking feeling swallowed up the empty space left in his chest cavity. Holmes found that it troubled him to be the least favoured party.

"I... have come to the conclusion that I might be suffering from an undisclosed illness," Holmes had mentioned in passing the next time he had the pleasure of crossing paths with said older brother, as decided societal norms deem they catch up on events past and present. “It would appear to be most vicious and unforgiving in nature, however I have not yet deduced its source of origin.”

Mycroft had listened keenly to the list of ailments; a surprisingly sympathetic glow in his dark eyes. Holmes had found himself perplexed as to why he'd decided that sharing what was at best a silly side note was a viable option. Perhaps, he was subconsciously asking for advice? When he'd finally stopped long enough to allow himself room to breathe; Mycroft had simply smiled with a knowing - _superior_ \- expression on his face, and shook his head. He needn't say much.

"No time like the present to allow that particular bug to bite you, Sherly."

Once again, Holmes had resolved to sweep the notion that implied under the rug. It hadn't been as difficult, not with Watson unavailable as the good doctor’s room on 221B stood vacant and drafty in its haphazard abandon. Of course, he'd want to live with Ms. Morstan after she'd accepted his proposal. Holmes found himself _‘preoccupied poisoning Gladstone and driving Nanny up the walls’_ , as Watson fondly called it; found himself lost in the drug induced productivity of his literal - and figurative - highs. Awaiting the day he could set the chase of one Professor James Moriarty into motion. Anticipating it; dreading it with a thrill of excitement. The uneventful reality was steadily chipping away at his sanity. 

Until Watson's gentle voice sifted through the floorboards, revealing his unexpected visit. Until Holmes found his heart rate picking itself up into a frenzy, matching the rhythm of each shuffled limp of a foot step ascending the flight of sturdy wooden stairs. Until he could smell the familiar tobacco, and the fancy cologne Ms. Morstan had thoughtfully purchased for her husband to be. It had been two frightfully long weeks.

Holmes was well aware of the fact that Watson was getting married. He had come to terms with the fact that it was to happen soon; wise to the fact that both pastor and chapel had been handpicked and appointed. Knew Watson would expect him to attend. 

But he had failed to foresee how the certified duty as ring bearer would befall him. Or how he would be blessed with the revered title of Groomsman. It was flattering, in the simple non-scientific joy it brought forth. 

But despite the honour of Watson’s enthralled revelation, Holmes could only smile weakly. The light refusing to touch his sad doe eyes. Where he would at times be able to conjure up a feigned sense of appropriate response, to act out the part of enthusiasm when necessary; this time his facial features would not cooperate. Instead, the corners of his lips twitched to turn halfheartedly upwards, into a lopsided grimace. 

Holmes masked the vexing, sudden incapability of making pretend with an embrace. Too light to be misconstrued, too tight to be an oversight. As he withdrew, he found to his relief that he was once again able to master his own odd sensibilities nigh perfectly. Watson’s expression revealed that he remained none the wiser to his friend's tumultuous inner befuddlement - or, if he _had_ noticed, he was masking it behind his own perfectly fortified walls.

The Wedding Day arrived all too quickly.

Holmes pursed his lips; giving Watson a meaningful look as he straightened out the hungover groom's wrinkled lapels; his off mark black bow tie. He swallowed down the lump of finality clogging up his throat, offering a curt nod of approval. Handing Watson the ever so precious golden band, he felt much like giving his life away as he passed it into the other man's callused palm. 

He watched in poignant silence as Watson looped Ms. Morstan's slim, white clad arm through his; leading her towards the aisle. That familiar hollowing ache in his chest threatening to drag him down into the ravenous whirlpool it had created. He had become accustomed to the uncomfortable gnawing at this point. Suspected he may have to spend the entirety of his continued existence walking hand in hand with it, much as he had previously led Watson by the hand. His own fingers still tingled from the firm grasp of Watson's; from the warm touch.

It was when Watson kissed Ms. Morstan - _now Mrs. Mary Watson_ \- that everything fell into place. Watson was now joined with her; belonged to her body and soul in the eyes of their peers. She would forever stand between Holmes and his only friend, his only ally. The only person that truly mattered.

Holmes teethed his bottom lip; finding himself unable to adhere to the beaming faces surrounding him, seated along the cramped, overcrowded pews. He glanced aside, briefly catching Mycroft's soft, sympathetic expression from behind before his older brother turned his attention again towards the happy newlyweds. His own gaze followed it; registering tender smiles and the faint glow of blush colouring Watson’s cheeks pink. 

Only then, as the emptiness rooted itself into his core, did it come to him. Holmes clenched the fists he kept neatly placed atop his lap. Averted his eyes, unable to discombobulate the cogs of his mind working; drawing connections he'd have preferred to remain blissfully oblivious to. He was quite assured Watson would be in good hands, knowing Ms. Mor- _Mrs. Watson_ would love her husband as dearly as he himself did.

Love. 

Holmes loved Watson. No. He was _in love with_ Watson.

The symptoms, every ailment he had been riddled with. Everything fit like clockwork, every textbook example aligning with the illness that had been plaguing his conscience to the point of irrationality.

Holmes swallowed; keeping his gaze downcast. Every past interaction between himself and Watson he could clearly recall flashing before his inner vision. And along with the vivid memories, came that same damned void squeezing at his heart, threatening to devour his entire being whole as it sank like a sodden weight into the pit of his stomach. Settled there like a knife lodged in his side. He almost snorted in abandon; a somber look settling upon his face as dared peer at Watson and his beautiful blushing bride. 

He had always been regarded as atypical and anomalous in the eyes of the regular population. Outlandish, puzzling, even deviant. Sticking out like a sore thumb. Drawing upon himself attention for his peculiarities; his wits his only saving grace. 

So, would it not be The Lord’s finest idea of mockery - if there was such a figure as a biblical God in spite of better judgment - to deal him such a hand? _The irony!_

"I love you," Holmes caught Mrs. Watson saying as she pressed a chaste kiss to Watson's cheek; a mere whisper as the detective read her lips.

Had she known, the day she so boldly proclaimed that she and Holmes cared equal amounts for Watson? Had she suspected what Holmes himself had not yet been able to comprehend, despite his own superior powers of reasoning? If so, he must admit her to be more intelligent than he had presumed. And if she had, Holmes also condoned and much appreciated her decision not to tell Watson. There was simply no _need_ for him to know. He would have no reason to fret, no reason so suspect his closest friend of such deplorable tendencies. Holmes himself would be a fool to speak a word of it. He needn't - wouldn't - cause any further rifts between them.

It _hurt_. 

Always had. 

Now, more than ever. 

But Holmes was accustomed to living in a world no one else would understand. Accustomed to tackling demons no ordinary man would ever need do battle with. Perhaps, it served him well to learn to cope with the one affliction he had so naively counted out of the equation. 

Pity, he was doomed to let Watson go before he could ever even abate his own _misplaced affections_.

**Author's Note:**

> So, RDJ hinted somewhere (dunno how legit it is, but it seems pretty much accurate) that he played Holmes in Shadows as if he were in love with Watson. Hence, this is pretty much canon in a sense - at least very much compliant. 
> 
> And Holmes would never tell, poor thing. 
> 
> Also, this goes along with my previous fic. Might make it a series, who knows? 
> 
> Enjoy, for now!


End file.
